


Broadest Road to Travel

by barbiehighheels



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbiehighheels/pseuds/barbiehighheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon divergence. The mistreatment of Sansa Stark makes Sandor decide sooner than the Blackwater Battle to ask her to leave King's Landing with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broadest Road to Travel

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a couple years ago for a SansaxSandor livejournal Christmas fic exchange! I thought I would air it out and post it here.

Sandor leaned his forehead against the cold stone castle wall to steady himself. The smooth stone felt bracing, as did the cold of the night. He was dead drunk.

On the nights he wasn’t required to stand guard outside Joffrey’s door, Sandor invested in the smothering of emotions down at the pub with strong sour wine amidst the stares he felt glaring at his white cloak.

This evening he’d become particularly unstabled by table wine, and was unsteady on his feet as he fumbled back to the castle entrance, a hand trailing against the wall as he went, stumbling. He turned the corner, steering his wobbly legs, and almost didn’t notice the slight figure rush past him, until he spotted the red hair escaping her hood. _Almost, little bird_ , he thought, and snatched her arm, yanking the girl towards him.  She looked up at him, startled and pale. Her breath misted in the cold air as she exhaled quickly, terrified and beautiful.

“And where have you been?” He growled down at her, yanking her hood down with his free hand.

“At-at- the godswood…” She answered, stammering in terror. She held his gaze, though, and Sandor savored the prolonged eye contact with her for a moment until she dropped her chin and stared at her feet. No matter how polite Sansa Stark may be, her manners never extended far enough for her to really gaze at his face for long. Sandor wanted her to look him in the eye again, so he jerked her chin upright and forced her face upwards to his, enjoying the satisfaction of being eye to eye with her.

“And what were you doing there at this time of night?” He demanded harshly. He saw her jaw clench and realized she wouldn’t tell him. He let her chin go and felt his arms drop to his side.

“Very well, little bird. We’re all allowed secrets from time to time. I’ll walk you back to your cage. Come, girl.”

Sandor made a valiant effort to steady himself, and grabbed the little bird’s arm and began to walk briskly, forcing her to walk faster to keep up with him. 

They’d reached the bridge when Sandor spotted Ser Boros, and immediately unclenched his hand from Sansa’s arm. Sansa went to rub the spot he’d held so fiercely, but Sandor smacked her hand away, not wanting Ser Boros to think the two of them to be returning from misdeeds in the forest, or even that he’d been hurting Sansa. Sandor could not let Ser Boros think it was acceptable to harm the girl. It was already painful enough, the sight of her bruises, and the stretches of her new silences since her father’s death. Joffrey had requested Sandor to administer some of the girl’s punishment, but he refused. He’d told Joffrey it was beneath him and an insult to his skill, to beat a small girl. Joffrey seemed to accept this, and instead had Ser Meryn or Ser Boros deliver these acts, and their enthusiastic agreement made Sandor scowl.

Ser Boro’s hand rested on the hilt at his hip. He narrowed his eyes at the pair, and Sandor fed him some tripe about the mess at the gates, with the commoners learning of Tyrek’s wedding feast preparations. He nodded, buying the story, like the moronic sod Sandor knew him to be.

He still felt very drunk once they’d reached Sansa’s bedchambers, and Sandor hoped she wouldn’t notice, although suspected she did when he turned to face her at the door and she cringed at his breath.

He’d wanted to say something sweet, to soothe the girl, to sympathize and show he was on her side, but instead he’d scared her again and talked of singing. She’d agreed sweetly to sing for him, but Sandor could tell it was a lie and saw straight through her. Stupid girl.

He’d wanted to touch her, the soft part of her neck and the shine of her hair, the bow of her lower lip and the bridge of her nose; but instead he’d scared her again. Sandor was always torn between wanting to soothe her and wanting to scare her, making her stronger. She was too sweet for this castle and the men in this court. They’d rip her apart, if given the court-appointed authority, and they’d do it gleefully. He watched her enter her bedchambers, but didn’t leave until he heard the bolt thunk shut.

Much later, he was in her bedroom. He watched her fumble with the laces of her gown and suddenly felt a rush of pity for the child. He had been sent to her quarters to retrieve her to court and face Joffrey’s wrath after hearing the news of Robb Stark’s victory against Ser Stafford’s army. Sandor was unsure of what, exactly, Joffrey had planned, and misliked the look of joyous malevolence on the boy’s face, but hoped that in court, in the public eye, that no lasting damage would be done to Sansa.

“Don’t you know how to dress yourself, girl?” He rasped callously, worrying that the longer they took, the worse Joffrey’s wrath would become.

“Usually someone does this for me.” Sansa answered.

Understanding, Sandor removed his gauntlets and pinned them in his underarm, and walked to where Sansa stood in front of her wardrobe, fumbling with the laces on the back of her dress. When she felt his hands reach them, she stiffened for a moment, before drawing her loose hair up and holding it above her neck for him to lace her freely. He finished tightening the laces and tying them off, and couldn’t stop his hand from resting at the nape of her neck, watching as his fingers trailed through her hair. He felt her hold her breath, standing completely still under his hand around her neck. His hand almost completely encircled it. She let her hair drop, and Sandor liftd his fingers through it, letting his fingers comb through her hair and enjoying the softness, before coming to his senses and letting go. She turned, and stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted.  Sandor swallowed hard.

“Is he angry today?” She whispered. He nodded, and Sandor saw the little bird straighten her spine and steel herself a bit. He felt a rush of affection for her suddenly, knowing what she was about to face.

Court was worse than he could have imagined. Even after he’d felt himself saying “That’s enough,” to those in court, hoping it would end, things had progressed, and here was the little bird, stripped naked to the waist and sobbing, bloodied, being beaten senseless. It didn’t stop until Tyrion came, and where Sandor was weak, feeling paralytic and small, the little man was bigger and stronger, and ended the torment. Sandor threw her his cloak, grateful when she was sensible enough to clutch it and cover herself.

When they led her away, he saw her tears stop and Sandor started planning. That would be the last time Sandor ever let a man hurt her. He saw the blood staining his cloak and vowed to make things right for the little bird as she left court. He looked back at Joffrey, bored and disinterest staining his royal fucking face, and Sandor felt no trace of the affection he’d once had for the boy.  Where he’d once felt admiration for the Lannister family, he now felt repugnance. His hand went to his sword and Sandor left court dreaming of the violence he wanted to inflict on these beasts. He left without being dismissed.

That night, he killed Chella first. He had no particular vendetta against the woman, but his sword slid into the simple creature simply because she was blocking the door to where Sansa was being kept in the Tower of the Hand, on Tyrion’s orders. Sandor almost looked forward to the bloody swath he would cut through the castle to get them out tonight.

She was asleep on her stomach, her hands folded under her chin like a child’s. Her back was bandaged to the ribs, but he saw that otherwise she was undressed. He sat down gingerly beside her on the bed, but even his gentle movement woke her, and within a second her eyes were wide and frightened as they adjusted to the dark figure beside her, and she was upright and crawling backwards to get away from him, not even noticing her nakedness.

“Little bird.” He rasped.

“Hound,” she answered, relieved. She drew the blanket up over her breasts, and Sandor appreciated her modesty. He’d seen her that day in court, and it had taken every fiber in his being to not stare, but there was something about the relief in her voice at the sound of his name just now that made him want to yank the blanket away from her and pin her to the bed and kiss her.

With the sheet still wrapped around herself, she crawled back towards Sandor, kneeling very close to him. Sandor could barely make out the outline of her face, tinged blue in the moonlight. Her hair was moonlit haloed mess, hanging loose down her back.

“They asked me if I wanted to go back to my room tonight but I said no. I’d rather stay here. Do you know why?” She whispered.

Sandor shook his head.

“I couldn’t see the stars from my previous room. I just had to trust that they were there.” And with that, he saw the shine of tears down her cheeks, some older and some new, some still falling. He reached out to her, touching her slightly on her bare shoulder. She put her hand on top of his and, inexplicably, overturned his hand to hold her face. Sandor pushed her hair away from her face, and wiped her tears away with his thumb. He put his hands on either side of her hips then, and mindful of the day’s raw new welts on her back, gently pulled her into his lap. Her arms circled his neck immediately, and she buried her face in his shoulder. Sandor had never felt anything so exquisite, and moved his large hands to rest on top of her thighs. She felt so small to him. She raised her face and looked at him suddenly, face inches from his. His fingers dug into her thighs, pulling her tighter.

“Do you want to go home, little bird?”

She kissed him. She kissed him sweetly, inexpertly, and awkwardly, but she leaned in and kissed him all the same. She softly kissed the ruined side of his mouth. She kissed him on his burned cheek next, and Sandor loved her. He’d loved her before, and he’d known as he’d felt nothing like it before, but it was in that dark bedroom, her half-naked and injured, him having just murdered someone to get to her, that he would later point out as the moment he truly fell in love with Sansa Stark.

He cupped either side of her face, and kissed her hungrily. Her lips parted under his mouth and Sandor felt a sudden heat rising when their tongues met, and he grabbed her fiercely around her middle, yanking her close. She cried out in pain, then, and broke the kiss.

“Sorry,” Sandor muttered, dropping his hands regretfully from her back.  He’d forgotten.

“I’m alright.” She answered.

“Get dressed. Grab valuables if you can. We’re going.” Sandor told her, and slid her off his lap to stand. He finally said what it was that he came in there to say, but didn’t regret the loss of time. He wouldn’t regret that delay for a kiss for the rest of his life.

He waited outside while she dressed, and was wondering if she needed help, when she opened the door suddenly, ready to go. She was wearing a simple shift dress with tall boots. And his cloak. She’d put his cloak back on.

“Stay behind me. Keep up. And I swear, girl, if you make one peep I’ll leave you to Boros.” He growled.

Sansa smiled thinly, revealing her knowledge of his empty threat. She pulled her hood up, tucked her hair inside, and nodded at him.

When they left the castle, they encountered very few people. Just the odd scurrying servant, too fearful of Sandor to say anything. Perhaps they thought he was taking Sansa to her death, or worse. Perhaps this was expected. He grit his teeth and seethed with hatred for all of them- the servants, the knights, the damned king, all who let Santa Stark be hurt.

When they reached the bridge, Sandor saw Ser Boros standing there. _Perfect_ , he thought, and drew his sword.

Ser Boros heard the cold whisper of steel and turned to face them. He slit his eyes at the pair.

“What’s this, then?” Ser Boros called out.

Sandor turned to Sansa. “Not one word, little bird. You will not scream. No matter what.” Sansa nodded grimly, her eyes set on Ser Boros on the bridge.

Sandor advanced on Ser Boros, who was still fumbling with his sword at the hilt, and hit Boros in the temple with his pommel. Boros stumbled, even went to a knee, but he stood again and drew his sword, with a grim determination now set on his ugly face.  Sandor punched him in the jaw and watched him stagger back.  Sandor strode forward, and slashed at him, cutting a red stripe across the knight’s chest through his rusted stinking chainmail.

“What’s the matter, Boros? Can you only hit little girls?” Sandor growled, and knocked him down again with a closed fist. “Is it a problem for you when someone tries to fight you back?”

Sandor watched Boros go down, hands clutching closed the bright red wound across his chest. The knight’s eye was already swollen shut where Sandor had hit him. 

Sandor pressed his sword point into the man’s neck, just below his adam’s apple, and enjoyed the sight of blood welling beneath the sword tip. A delicate and lovely red line of it trickled down the man’s throat.  He would have driven it all the way through, if not for the girl and what she’d said. He turned around to face her.

“Wait.” She said again, louder this time. “Don’t.” she said, while staring down at Boros bleeding. She looked back up at Sandor. “Leave him, please.” She looked Sandor in the eye. “Please.” She repeated.

After a pause, Sandor scowled, and stalked off, putting his sword back in its sheath. He heard Sansa’s hurried footsteps to catch up to him. He was angry that she’d interfered, and wished she’d have let him finish Boros. It was crueler this way, letting him die more slowly from bleeding to death. But the end result was the same, and he’d be dead. That was all that was needed.

Once on horseback, they made better time. They’d reached the gates of King’s Landing and didn’t slow down, not even when Sandor was hacking and slashing left and right to cut a path through the guards rushing them. Word of their escape must have spread. Sansa clung to him, her face buried in his back behind him in the saddle, although Sandor was sure at one point that he’d seen the boot of her heel land on a guard’s face when he tried to pull her off the saddle. Sandor smiled, and cut a man open neck to navel.

They rode out of the gates, his warhorse frothing and chomping at the bit, maddened by the frenzy and danger. They rode for hours at a gallop, and Sandor kept glancing behind him to see the city getting smaller, and to see the lights grow dimmer. They rode until the creature’s knees buckled, and they were thrown forward. Sandor wanted to keep moving, but Sansa had insisted on kneeling at Stranger’s side, tears streaming down her face, until it finally died. She’d quietly told the dead animal “Thank you.” before standing and slipping her hand into Sandor’s. If Sansa noticed his reluctant tears, she hadn’t acknowledged them. Bless her for it.

They walked until Sandor felt her steps start to falter and she sagged into him. He lifted her, slinging her into his arms, and carried her like a child with her legs wrapped around him and wrists around his neck until the sky was tinged with pink at the edges of the horizon, and he thought that he’d die. He veered off the Kingsroad then, and into the woods to find water.

At a bubbling stream, they rested while the sunlight grew stronger and dappled the ground between the leaves. Sansa splashed water on her face, and rinsed her hands and neck clean.  He could have nearly smiled at her effort to stay clean, even now.

Sandor watched Sansa stand, albeit a bit shakily and sore, and she smiled at him, unsure and wan. But a smile all the same.

They had no plan. Nowhere to go. They had only so much money before they’d run out and have to start selling whatever valuables Sansa had grabbed from the Tower of the Hand.  There would be a significant reward, perhaps even lands and a lordship title for whomever delivered both of their heads back to King’s Landing.

None of it mattered.

Sansa, after drinking her contentment in water, walked to Sandor and lay next to him, sated and scrubbed clean. She lay her hands on his chest and looked into his eyes. “Thank you.” She told him, and kissed him.

That is what mattered. Her. It had always been her. 


End file.
